John Grey
Crows are the most ominous
of birds.
They are not a choir
to which I ever can accustom.
Their caws don’t meld
but face off against each other,
like pugilists of noise.
Add in their dark monk robes
and it all comes off as dirge.
The cemetery’s the place for crows
but they perch on boughs
outside my window,
greet my morning
as if it’s done already.